Can I get an amen to how mother effing hard this stay at home mom/cook/homeschool teacher/maid/Correctional officer/faith builder/Driver/tutor/personal assistant/seamstress/counselor /everything else under the sun gig is on a person? Some days, and this is one of those days 100% for sure “OMG “I would rather have the hardest job I’ve ever had instead of doing this… Yes it’s rewarding yes I love it yes I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

But oh my hell, it is so effing hard! Please… Can I get an AMEN!? And tell me how you guys are doing today…

I’m not perfect. That’s not an excuse. Just fact. I need to be forgiven a lot, and not always by people that understand forgiveness.

My kids don’t quite get the enormity of both the offense and the requested forgiveness. They are resilient. Little bouncy balls of love that haven’t quite tasted the bitterness of life yet.

Last night my middle child kept waking. Each time I would lay back down after trying a different technique to help him get back to sleep. I would just about be asleep when he would start to whimper and cry.

“Mommy…”

Each time I went back in, I would lose a little bit more of my patience. He got more and more timid, with fresh, innocent hurt welling up in his eyes.

1 am, 2 am, 3 am, 4 am…in and out every 20 minutes. Then he comes in and wakes the baby. Now she is cooing and giggling in her bassinet as if to say “goodmorning mommy, is it time?”

No. Faaaaaaack no I haven’t even freaking gone to sleep yet! The enormity of that realization and what it means for me for that day hits me like a slap across my cheek.

Instead of trusting it will all work out fine, anxiety kicks in and I yell in my toddler’s tired face. “JUST FUCKING GO. TO. SLEEP!!!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!?????”

His Trusting eyes narrow into disbelief. This is my mommy. The banisher of monsters, the singer of peace, the soother of growing limbs. Such anger in my eyes, glaring at him, the betrayal he feels is tangible in the darkened space between us.

He’s my sensitive soul. The one that tells me he “wuvs me to da moon”. In that moment I feel like I’ve broken the close tie between us. Would he ever forgive me for being so hateful? Does he even know what it means to forgive?

He starts to sob and tremble. My son literally trembled in fear.

I start to cry as well. Feeling like a lost child trying to be the adult. I don’t always know what to say or what to do. If it will break them or raise them up.

I pull him to me. Praying he won’t push me away. He melts into my arms and I lay down with him on one side and the baby nursing on the other. He falls asleep in about 5 minutes and, miraculously, the baby as well. Finally, we rest.

In the morning I ask for forgiveness and he looks at me like nothing happened.

One hour people. That’s all I have. My mind’s racing. So much to write. One hour. Wait, what!?! 40 minutes. Crap. Okay. I can do this.

This is me right now.

Currently listening to this and I recommend listening with headphones in to drown out other…. Noise. Their WHOLE album is awesome-sauce so I recommend a checkout.

Music in. ✅

Wine….uhhh…. In. ✅

Self appearance: reflecting real life. ✅

One hour is what I asked for…just for me. The strings I had to pull to get it? Let’s just say it was complicated. But alas, baby is safe with Grammy. Boys are having fun with daddy.

What to do with an hour? Come here of course. Focus. My mind has been COMPLETLY wrecked and scattered with everything going on and so many things to do. Laundry. Switching out kids clothes for bigger clothes. Storage. Boxes. More laundry. Switch out toys for other toys. Found HUGE box of baby toys. Big boys are more interested in them than baby is and baby still just wants to cling to me all day. Thank GOD for baby carriers!

I find myself momsplaining all the time. What’s momsplaining? Here’s an entertaining explanation. I fall victim to acting the part of the victim all the time. It’s a weakness. I’m not proud of it. I hate it actually. What do I hate more, my fat knees or my tendency to try and make people realize how stressful my life is….yup the second one. Bar None. Why can’t I just shut up and keep on truckin!!?? Ugh.

So my momsplaining rant for today is that I haven’t had a moment to JUST be myself in…. Beep boop beep (calculating)… 3 weeks. Ok so that’s not that bad right? Think of the last time you got to poop alone. Was it today? Was it this week? If you said yes then you can go ahead and keep listening to my momsplaining.

My husband has only one week home this time around and then will be gone for 3 weeks. So out of 1 1/2 months we only get to be with him for one week. 7 days. Then it’s just me. Cue to my thought cloud picturing me putting on warpaint and shin guards. (Also to listening to a lot of this.)

I’m putting on my mommy armor people. Exaggerating? With two tackling boys and a teething baby there isn’t much exaggeration needed.

For the next three weeks I will be without my darling hubby to help me. I’ll be all alone on the front lines. Trying my best to keep it all together. Keep the jello from falling out of the colander while three little monkey gremlins shake it with delight, so to speak.

So I have an hour people. (Actually 8 min now gaaaah!) and what am I doing?

Refueling.

Three things I know about myself and refueling:

I need to be held

I need to be alone

I need music

Touch fills my tank. And don’t make me ask for it, just hug me for longer than 5 seconds. Full me up.

I need number 2 and 3 together. The wine isn’t a must but it’s a freakin bonus. (So if you haven’t noticed by now I am a Christian AND I drink alcohol once in a while-just like Jesus did -yup- and I’m working on a blog post about that- more to come soon). I have to be alone to clean out teach shattered thought scraping my brain like sharp glass. And the music blows it away. Carries it like a crisp September breeze to the first fallen autumn leaves. Yes. There it is. My tank. Filling. And I drink it in so desperately.

Slowly now, momma, just slow down. Close those eyes and breathe. Feel your chest and stomach billow. You MUST find YOU in order to REALLY take care of those youngins and your lover. Build yourself up in a way that only YOU know how. Don’t apologize. Don’t feel guilty for doing it. Feel guilty for NOT doing it.

You don’t want to become zombie-mom. You know her. Dark, glazed eyes. Teary. Can’t handle spilled yogurt. Doesn’t know what she wants at the Starbuck’s drive up because no one has asked her what she has wanted in 2 weeks. Becoming her is common but dangerous. Don’t lose you. Find it. Take a moment. STEAL it if you must.

It’s importance is golden. Essential. Utterly fundamental. You have got to keep yourself to give yourself.

My almost 3 year old sits at the table, happily chattering about imagined worlds with his brother and sticking olives on each finger. “Raaaaaawwrrrrrr! I’m owiv okopuss monster!”​

“Mommy, you wike owivs?”

“I do baby.”

“Mommy, I wuv you.”

This is the moment, people. The 10 months I spent waking every hour to console/nurse him. The constant 2 year old whining. The poop and pee and vomit. The tears, oh the tears, we both have shed. The never ending 6 am wakings no matter what.

This is the moment you hold onto. This boy in particular likes to tell me daily that he loves me without me prompting him to do so. Having an older child than him, I know that that heart-filling habit may not last. So I cling to his words and I breathe in his dimpled smile and twinkling eyes.

“I wuv you mommy.”

Yes, my cup runneth over.

Then he turns to Daddy with a devilish grin and whispers, “Me no like you Daddy.” Then busts out with a mischievous giggle. My husband and I both look at each other and laugh hard. A boy after his daddy’s own heart…he already has a coy and on-point sense of humor. We both know Daddy is his favorite at the moment.

Delighted with our reaction, he whispers it again. “Me no like you Daddy.” Then he reaches for him to pick him up and gives his Daddy a big bear hug, still giggling.

All the puking and 24/7 nausea when I was pregnant with him. All of the fierce kicks to my organs and cervix (ouch!) from that abnormally strong little infant.

It’s worth it when he says those four words to me because I know it comes from a place of innocence and sincerity.

Fast forward 5 minutes later to him spilling his newly opened yogurt, splattering it all over the floor and cupboards.

“Sowwy mommy, it atsident!” he quickly explains with tears gathering in his eyes.

Reality ✅ We live with my husband’s parents. I’m 33 years young, have 3 kids, and live with my in-laws. We live in one bedroom upstairs with two twin mattresses on the floor and a toddler bed on one side. Outside of the one bedroom doors, I sleep in a daybed (yup I’m high-Rollin’ it, sleeping off the ground) with the baby’s sidecar bassinet sleeper next to my bed. We actually have our own bathroom upstairs too. Winning!

Reality ✅ My husband and I don’t sleep in the same bed. Sex usually happens on the stairs or in the bathroom. We will sleep in the same bed again some day. We do co-sleep with our kids. We love it. We are packed in like sardines up here, but even if we had our own house, it would probably be the same.

Reality ✅ I get to stay home with the kids while my husband works 2 weeks straight driving a HAZMAT truck all around WY, ND, SD, MT and Canada. Being a SAHM (a ‘stay at home mom’ for those of you who actually have lives outside of children) is THE hardest job I’ve ever had. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually… Hard hard hard hard. My hubby won’t trade jobs with me. But (cliché alert) I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Reality ✅ My middle child is 2 years old and a little fire cracker. Sweet as honey, wild as a monkey with rabies, but at that very cute stage of saying words all wrong and it’s so adorable. I was putting him to bed in his ‘big boy’ bed tonight and he says: “mommy, wub my wegs.” So I rub his legs. “Mommy, wub my alms.” So I rub his arms. “Mommy, wub my behwee.” So I rub his belly. 2 hands, 10 fingers, 2 feet, 10 toes, 1 back, 1 neck, and 2 ears later… “Mommy, wub my wips.” “Your lips!?” “Pwease mommy my wips huht.” “Ok close your eyes though and go to sleep.” “Otay mommy, wuv you mommy, mommy you wuv sweep?” “Yes I love sleep sweetie… Now close your eyes.” I ‘rubbed’ his lips for 20 seconds and he was out. Who gets growing pains in their lips!? I think I’ve been had. Ha! And I love it. It was my last ounce of effort and I could almost taste that hour of mommy alone time freedom to come, but oh how I loved his ‘so serious’ yet nonsensical requests for attention and love.

Reality ✅ I’m BEYOND tired and now my husband is begging me to rub his legs. (Like father like son) He’s had a lot of anxiety issues lately. This is mom. This is wife. I could get frustrated…many times I most certainly do. I am so needed right now. It’s maddening and overwhelming sometimes. But I am so needed…. And it won’t always be this way. He just better not ask me to rub his lips. *sigh*

It’s really not the beginning. This blog. I grew up in the 80s, and I distinctly remember blogs being called journals or diaries and they were most certainly not public. Then again I learned to type on an actual typewriter.

It’s tempting to speak as if I have an audience but I don’t… And I like that for right now. I plan on being transparent. #NoMakeup for this blog. In fact this whole introduction is completely boring and uninsiteful. Why isn’t that a word? Come on! Uninsiteful isn’t a word? Damn technology.

I’m a mom. Almost 5, 2 ½, and 4 mo. Those are the ages of my little gremlins. My sweet sweet gremlins. Does it define me? Is it WHO I am? Frick ya, do you have kids? It’s flipping consuming.

I want to be a midwife. I love birth. I love babies. The cute and the messy parts of both. All three of my kids popped out in water and not in a hospital. I’m sooooo brave. Nope, nope noooooo not brave… I’m scared of hospitals and the awfulness of having a baby on my back because the hippy portion of my brain refuses to have an epidural.

Ok so here we are… The kids are hungry but temporarily distracted by the Octonauts. I woke at 6:30 with the baby, but have had only had 2 cookies and 2 cups of coffee. Hippy-me made sure to drink at least a whole glass of water first thing this morning. The baby is whining in her activity saucer. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, I haven’t showered in 2 days. (Military baths are a must sometimes). For the last 4 days I’ve wanted someone to come save me. Not from my kids, not from my life… Just please someone come watch them for 3 days while I lie in a hotel with room service and unlimited massages. I won’t survive without it! (And then I wake up every day and do this mom thing again and again). You survive and sometimes thrive cuz you just do. It’s called love-fuel.

My hubby works 2 weeks on 2 weeks off about 8 hrs from our home. So I’m a single mom for half of the year. I solute you single moms. You are badasses. IT’S HARD. It’s flipping hard. It’s almost impossible and LADEN with mom-guilt and exhaustion. Why would anyone volunteer to do this job and not get paid!?! Money wouldn’t be enough that’s why! The payment is in tears, boob milk, giggles, floor-poops, somersault kicks to the head, and hugs. And vomit. Lots of vomit.

So here I go, into this day. What’s on the agenda? My 4 year old learned to moon me yesterday. So there’s that. Also I just wiped my 2 ½-year-old’s bottom with one hand and held my plate of breakfast in the other. Hey at least he’s potty trained… Let the adventure begin…errr… continue!